Circumstances have nudged me on to a path slightly oblique from my norm and reduced my poetic form to mere muttering which may not be apparent to anyone chancing upon these efforts even though I know my muse is distracted and is unable to provide a clear voice for my pen and I will require patience as I wait the return of the inspiration necessary to proceed in this new direction, whatever it may be.
Muse lays back and mutters to itself.
I am not privy to this conversation
until sometime later, perhaps.
If I am attentive, Muse may whisper to me.
I can capture the words if my pen is ready,
otherwise I lose them forever.
Has the world turned it back on me or have I to the world?
It makes no difference.
In my isolation, I have found solitude
and in this solitude, I have found peace.
There is no one to blame and no one to thank.
I live alone
with not a woman in my life.
To live otherwise
would make two people unhappy.
She and Me
An illusory downpour is hidden in the glare
of a bright autumn sun shining in a cloudless sky.
It is make-believe. All of it.
Even so, we blissfully bask in what we imagine,
whether rain or sun, on a day we want to call today.
It can be erased.
Not erased but unimagined and
it will disappear as quickly as it appeared.
Then, stricken by the pain of our loss, we will mourn.
As I age, my future
(or at least my concept of a future)
My spiritual adviser
(I don’t have one)
is pleased since his teaching
denies the existence of a future.
My financial advisor
(I don’t have one of these either)
is displeased since his teaching
argues for an expensive future.
(I have one)
is neither pleased nor displeased
and in her silence,
dreams of a yard without squirrels.
This is not a day to be out.
There are demons afloat
I do not wish to confront.
They are a frightful lot
even when they are not.
So, I will remain hidden since
hidden is a prudent place for me
I am an old man.
A wandering alien
In an unfamiliar world.
A world where
Only scattered artifacts
Serve as my reminders.
I am an old man.
A wisp of a shadow passing
Over fresh ground.
I am still me,
Years ago, a child was born
And soon transformed into
A warrior whose sword dulled
A teacher whose knowledge dried
A father whose children aged
A husband whose wife died
And now, the child reappears
And quietly waits his return
To what he was
Before he was born.
On this grey October morning,
Beethoven, rain, and a pen.
Nothing more is needed to bring contentment
To the cloistered world of the Old Hermit.